The Mad Mask
by talltophat
Summary: An alternate story involving Will Graham and Hannibal Lector. When Jack brings Will to the scene of a rather artistic murder he develops a deep understanding of false appearances. Will he finally break through Hannibal's impenetrable veil or will Hannibal turn the tables and expose Will to his true self? How will they cope when their masks have been removed?


I sit on the rotting wood of the step, gazing with eyes half closed into the large expanse of autumnal greenery and barren grassland that surrounds my humble home. It's a pleasant day, the leaves rustle in a way which could be comforting and the early morning sun bathes me in a kindly glow.

I try to value the weather, the frost will be here soon and with it the signature sharp winds and dark nights, but my appreciation cannot be forced and I continue to stare blankly ahead, uncaring and without feeling.

A crow cries far above me, piercing the morning silence with its harsh shriek.

It snaps me out of my contemplation and I become aware of my physical circumstance; I am shivering violently. I rub my frozen hands together, hoping that the friction will force some heat into my frosty nerves, but they stay cold.

I turn my attention to my strays who play happily in the long grass and feel, rather ashamedly, envious of their naivety. Observing their energy makes me feel weak and done, like an old man, watching his grandchildren play as he sits, dying and decrepit, upon the porch swing.

I whistle loudly, only once, and they abandon their activities and approach me, their ring leader, expectantly. I stare fondly at my loyal band of pups and send them inside.

It is time to go to work.

* * *

"'Morning, Will!" greets Jack, a little too cheerfully.

He's_ attempting_ to liven me up before the introduction of some fresh horror. He's _trying_ to stimulate me.

I wish it worked, but we both know that it doesn't; if anything it irritates me.

"Jack." I nod tediously, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

I see his dark eyes asses me as he attempts to rate my stability. It's a daily routine and I vaguely wonder just _how_ bad I would have to look for Jack to dismiss me. A voice tells me pale and cold, lying in the morgue.

I force its silence, but it's probably right.

And I see myself, reflected grotesquely in his brown irises and upon realising such look away, instead turning my attention to his vast wall of books and focusing on nothing in particular.

"Sit." He commands, gesturing to a sickly yellow chair. He takes his own seat opposite.

"So," I begin, sliding myself onto the shiny leather. My clammy hands stick uncomfortably to the arm rests. "What delights do you have for me today?"

He snorts once at my sarcasm but ignores my question.

"We'll be going into the city, to an Art gallery."

"An Art gallery?" I ask with a twisted grimace, waiting for an explanation that never comes.

"Indeed. Are you ready to leave now?" he asks, a hint of concern peaking through his carefully chiselled, authoritive mask.

He rarely removes his mask. I am a rare exception.

The answer is no. "I don't see why not."

* * *

I force Mrs Flavelle up the steps, a gun pressed firmly against her slender back. I can feel her fear; her body trembles and recoils from the chilled metal but she continues forward, driven by incomprehensible dread.

We enter the gallery and I sneer at the work which so grotesquely decorates the walls. These excuses of 'art' are worthless. I am so much better than them.

I choose a canvas and turn to Mrs Flavelle, the focus of my masterpiece.

I lead her over to the vast board and tie her to it. She's confused and pleads for me to stop but I tell her to 'hush'. She should feel... privileged.

Six, inaccurate, bullets later and she's dead. But I leave her paling corpse there. The paint needs time to run.

During this time I remove the other wretched frames, piling them neatly to the side. I am not here to destroy, but create. The people can decide for themselves which pieces they prefer.

The canvas is now an attractive crimson.

I chose the best spot, the prime place and there I hang her. She dangles from the wall like a pale angle framed in flame.

This is beauty. This is art. This is my design.

"What do you see, Will?" asks Jack, staring up at the canvas which I had, mere seconds ago, been 'painting'.

His voice frees me from my state of empathy and forces me back into a less vivid reality.

I swallow down the bile that has rose in my stomach.

"I see..." it is complicated to sum up this killer with a simple phrase, but I try, "A frustrated Artist."

* * *

"Do you like art, Will?" asks Dr Lector, his voice sincere. His eyes bore into mine, searching for truths.

I look around the room, glancing at the various paintings which hang from elaborate frames as I form my answer.

"To a degree, but I am no enthusiast." He looks at me expectantly and so I continue. "I don't have time for it. It confuses me as to why people put so much emphasis on aesthetics; I've never been one for... contrived appearances."

He smirks slightly and it confuses me.

"And this killer, he has a taste for 'contrived appearances'?"

I laugh once without humour. "Oh, yes. His believes in the importance of the visual but not of substance."

"He believes that beauty it only on the outside?"

"He believes it... completely; it absorbs him. He believes that it was worth this woman's life to create something, as he sees it, _beautiful_. He thinks he was doing a..." I search desperately for the right word. "...a _service_."

"This makes you angry." He deduces. "Why?"

I swallow loudly. "He has no appreciation for life."

"And you," concludes Lector. "Who has seen so much death; know that there is nothing more beautiful than life."

I look at him, unsure as to what I should say in response. His summary fits my explanation but I feel that there is a piece missing; I feel that his analysis is incomplete.

"It is good to feel this way, Will." He continues. "It means that you cherish your own life."

* * *

He tenses his jaw and his expression, which I choose to ignore, is one of absolute disagreement.

I would chuckle at his childish denial if the circumstances were not so professional, or morbid.

I decide that it is due time for a change of topic.

"Have you been having any more dreams, any more nightmares?" I ask him, though I already know the answer. His sickly complexion and bloodshot eyes suggest lack of sleep and his unease, fear. Still, I am curious to hear about them. The fact that Will's vivid imagination seeps into his subconscious only amplifies my wonder regarding his unique ability.

He twitches awkwardly; not wanting to remember what he is about to delve into, not wanting to reface what haunts his unaware mind.

I take it as a confirmation.

"What do you see, still Garret Jacob Hobbs?"

"Yes."

He pauses and it is so prolonged that I assume he has finished, but he ultimately continues.

"Only this time, I dreamt that I let him live."

This is...unexpected.

"But you did not, you killed him. You saved Abigail."

"I know! I know!" he says, raising his voice uncharacteristically. "But, this time, I let- I let him kill her. I couldn't pull the trigger." He looks at me almost apologetically. "It was as if... as if he was a _friend_. As if I understood him, I knew him, because he was so similar, because he was almost a_ reflection_ of me..."

"Garret Jacob Hobbs was not your friend, Will." I say, voicing what he already knows.

"I know..." he sighs, resigning himself. "But it's as if... all the lines separating the cases, the people, me are blurring and they're becoming one, one vast mess, as if I'm becoming them and they me."

He is succumbing to the minds of the criminals, which both worries and intrigues me.

"You're losing yourself, Will. You cannot allow that to happen."

He is too highly cherished a piece for me to let shatter. I see his worth, just as I assume Jack Crawford does.

"I know." He mutters, whether it is to himself or to me I am unsure. "I know."

* * *

The drive home is long and tiring. My mind buzzes frantically with thoughts and emotions that are not my own as I go over my appointment with Lector, time and time again. He had smirked when I'd voiced my distaste for outward falseness, a fact which, though small did not seem insignificant. Perhaps he'd taken my words as insulting; he was a lover of a fine suit after all. However, I believed him to be far too intelligent to take it in such a way and so its reasoning left me curious. Perhaps I'd been running with Jack Crawford for too long, perhaps it had simply been a smile.

I crawled into bed at 9:16 with the curtains and the window open wide. I didn't want to feel confined. I'd felt confined all day.


End file.
